“You think Vakutan #2 noticed me?” I ask him.
He flops in my palm, silent judgment oozing from every threadbare seam.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I whisper, leaning my head back against the warm pipe behind me. “Not the point. He’s…huge.”
A little laugh escapes me. The kind that aches more than it relieves.
“Gods, I sound like a teenager with a crush. On a genetically engineered war alien.”
I press my eyes shut.
“But he moved like thunder bottled in skin. And those eyes…like they’ve seen death and didn’t blink.”
I breathe deep. The air smells like ozone and hot copper. Comforting.
The comm chime buzzes on my sleeve.
NEW ASSIGNMENT: Deck 1A — Command Prep Hall / Diplomatic Conference Room.
Special sanitation request: expedited readiness for external dignitary arrival.
Authorizing officer: General Hugh Rection.
Priority: HIGH.
My stomach twists.
That’s not standard. That’s not routine.
Something’s happening.
I don’t know what. But I know Rection only calls in his best for clean-up when the stakes are political. Or dangerous. Or both.
I pack up fast. Stash the krilcat. Smooth my apron.
And whisper, “Here we go again.”
The diplomatic conference room smells like citrus and sterilizer, like it’s trying too hard to pretend nothing important’s about to happen here. I scrub in tight circles, eyes on the sheen of the table, mind drifting. The interlocking grain of the synthwood surface reflects the overhead glowpanels in hypnotic ripples. It’s too quiet. I don’t like it.
Usually when I clean in here, there’s at least a crewman fiddling with the comms or a junior officer trying not to wrinkle his pants while sitting at the table. Today, I’m alone. Not just alone —cleared out. Someone made sure of it. Thatmeanssomething.
The double doors slide open mid-wipe.
I freeze, hand still on the cloth.
Heavy boots. Two sets. Low voices.
I drop into a crouch, pretend to fuss over the floor buffer. I stay low and quiet in the shadows between console rows. A technician would’ve announced themselves. These two? They walk in like they own the place.
“—don’t care what the civvie council says,” Rection grumbles, sharp and low. “That bastard warlord’s not to be trusted. He raids five of our patrol routes, torches an outpost, and now they want to wine and dine him like he’s adignitary?”
That voice. No mistaking it. General Hugh Rection. Righteous, inflexible, war-forged.
A second voice follows. Smooth. Calculated. Soft edges made of poison.
“I’m not disagreeing with you, General,” Ambassador Kintar says. “But we don’t have the resources for a prolonged engagement in the Badlands. Every Reaper tribe Vokar convinces to fall in line under his banner is one less group flanking our exposed routes. It’s pragmatic.”
Pragmatic. Gods, I hate that word.
